


The Jedi and the Sith Lord

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: The Adventures of Lucy Skywalker [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Captivity, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Robots, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy emerges from carbon-freeze as the captive of Darth Vader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't make promises about how regular the updates are going to be (sorry!), but ... this is happening. Uh, several years late. I hope that those of you who stuck around enjoy it!

If Darth Vader did not avoid the sight of his daughter in carbonite, he certainly did not seek it out. Solo’s features had been carved into a rictus of shock and pain. Lucy, however, did not look surprised, but resigned, her upturned face hardened into lines of hopeless dread. After his first inspection in Cloud City, he felt no need or desire to examine her unchanging features any more closely. His glance, concealed by the mask, flicked past her for most of the journey to Vjun.

Now he considered the frozen slab that was his only child. Regrettable, he thought—but there had been no other way. The girl couldn’t be expected to see reason, not yet; she couldn’t be permitted to remain with her Rebel friends; she certainly couldn’t be left to the tender mercies of the Emperor. It’d been all Vader could do to convince him that a daughter might be of any use at all. At the slightest inconvenience, Palpatine would end her life and her great potential.

No, there had only been one alternative. She must be kept here, within his own stronghold on Vjun, safe from the rest of the galaxy, and under his control.

He would have liked to test her, but his first priority had to be capturing her, and that accomplished, transporting her to Bast Castle, out of sight of the Emperor. She had already proven herself strong in the Force; the rest could be taught. And carbon-freeze made everything easy.

It would not, however, endear him to her, and he had no doubt but that she would already be highly resistant to turning to the Dark Side. Obi-Wan had undoubtedly filled her head with nonsense and lies. A blind man could have seen his hand in Lucy’s determination to avenge her father’s death by killing—her father.

Vader had not believed that his opinion of his old master could fall any further, but even he never expected such treachery.

_Patricide._

It no longer mattered. Obi-Wan had failed, and soon his failure would be complete.

“Release her,” he ordered.

LX-3 stepped forward. A super battle droid he’d long ago disarmed and reprogrammed for heavy lifting (among other things), she knew better than to ask why he didn’t push the buttons himself. Or who he’d captured, at that. Or his reason for bringing her here, or anything. She heard; she obeyed.

If his officers had half her sense and competence, he’d have stamped out the Rebellion by now.

Ellex examined the carbonite, clicking thoughtfully to herself. Then, the defrost sequence determined, she pressed her wide metal fingers against the correct buttons.

The carbonite warmed to a dull red. A good sign.

He assumed.

Holes began to break in the carbonite, shards of light piercing through. The rays brightened and broadened, carbonite disappearing everywhere it touched. Lucy’s lips moved soundlessly—her fingers curled—and the rest of the carbonite melted apart.

Barely conscious, she tumbled forward. If not for Ellex’s quick reflexes, she would have hit the floor. As it was, she hit Ellex instead, the metal armoured body only small improvement. Lucy gave a low moan.

Her eyes slowly opened, then closed again, her body shuddering in Ellex’s arms.

“Carbon-sickness?” Vader asked the med-droid on hand. He’d expected some ill effects, but not this.

“Highly probable,” said T6-X. It bustled forward, reached out sensors to Lucy’s limp arm. She flinched back. “Elevated temperature. That suggests a more severe reaction than usual. Immunological hyperactivity, I suggest. It should pass with rest and—”

Lucy struggled upright, pushing weakly against Ellex’s grip. Her breath came quick and harsh, with a faint whistle as she gasped for air.

“Sedate her,” Vader ordered.

T6-X hesitated no more than Ellex. It extracted a syringe from one of the pouches about its torso and jabbed the needle into Lucy’s neck. In another moment, she collapsed.

To Vader’s relief—not that he’d felt any real fear—her breathing evened out.

All of his schemes, all of his careful maneuvering, had been geared towards this moment. And now?

“Put her in Room H12 while she recovers,” he said. “Tisix, keep her under observation. _Constant_ observation. Ellex—”

Unruffled as ever, she replied, “Yes, my lord?”

Vader paused. Even unconscious, Lucy grimaced in pain. Everything from her hair to her face to her hands was covered in a thin wet film, sweat and melted carbon mingling together. Her Rebel uniform, its cheap material torn and stained, stuck to her.

“Have her cleaned up,” he said at last. “And make her comfortable.”

* * *

 

Lucy woke in darkness, with a thundering headache. She lay still, trying to place herself, to collect her scattered thoughts. But she couldn’t … she didn’t … something heavy and sluggish seemed spread throughout her mind, keeping her from catching any scraps of memory.

“Are you certain?” a fretful voice said, and she nearly jumped. “If she malfunctions, we’ll be in the scrapyard for sure!”

A droid?

“Perfect certainty is not possible when it comes to organic processes,” said another voice, lower and sterner. “I am confident in my assessment, yes. The fever broke hours ago. I told you, it is a normal immunological phenomenon with high midi—oh! She is operating.”

Lucy opened her eyes. She’d expected dimness, from the lack of light on her lids. But it was absolutely dark.

“Wh—where’s the light?” she managed to say. Her throat felt dry and rough.

“The light?” repeated the first droid.

The second said, “What do you detect?”

Lucy sat up, fumbling for purchase on the—bed? Yes, she felt pillows against her back, heavy blankets beneath her. The shift from prone to upright tugged at her dress. Dress? Hadn’t she been … hadn’t she …

She must be in the Rebellion’s med-bay. It was the only explanation, though the bed felt different. Soft and springy. Lucy spread her fingers, reaching out, but the bed continued beyond the reach of her arms. Even Leia’s quarters wouldn’t …

“This isn’t the base.” Panic clenched in her chest, her breaths coming in short gasps. “Where am I? What’s going on? I can’t see! I can’t—”

“Please calm yourself,” said the droid. “Your sight should return within the next forty hours. It is merely a byproduct of your immunological hypersensitivity. You have an extremely high midichlorian count, and even moderate levels are correlated with—”

“A what?” Lucy twisted towards the voice. Unclenching her fingers from the blankets, she swung her legs in the same direction. Her ankles hit the edge of the bed. Cautiously, she pushed herself towards it.

“Midichlorian count,” the droid repeated. “Four to six thousand per milliliter would be high for a human, and either produce, result from, or exist symbiotically with aggressive immunological activity. Your count is at least twice as high. While I have not been able to identify your species, as a humanoid you—”

Lucy burst out laughing, shrill and painful. “My species! How could you know anything about my mitochlorian levels, or whatever it is? You don’t even know who I am!”

“Tisix, has someone made a mistake?” the other droid cried. “The Maker couldn’t have, could he?”

“Of course he could. His base code is organic, which inevitably sacrifices accuracy to efficiency,” said Tisix. “Error is in their nature. But it is very unusual for the Maker, and thus far all the data he supplied has been accurate and consistent.” It made a faint whirring sound. “Very well, ma’am. According to my records, your full identification code is _Skywalker, Lucy Amidala_. Is that correct?”

She pressed her fingers flat on either side of her, willing away the tremors.

“Yes, I’m Lucy Skywalker, but I still don’t see …”

Tisix went on, “You have been operational for the exact duration of the Empire. Your colouration is light, with dark yellow hair and blue irises. You stand at one hundred and fifty-seven standard centimeters, when upright, and—”

“That’s enough!”

The droid subsided. The chattering protocol droid, thankfully, fell silent as well, leaving Lucy to draw deep, uneven breaths in the quiet. She’d been afraid. Terribly afraid. It lingered with her, sharpening confusion to dread, now, here. Whatever _now_ and _here_ were. How long had she been … what even was this place …?

“Why am I here?” she said at last.

“Oh!” said the protocol droid. “Pardon me, miss, I should have explained it all first. You’re a guest of the Maker, a very important guest. And I am his assistant F-2VA, human-cyborg relations.”

Lucy’s headache had been starting to clear. This almost brought it back again. “I’m a … guest. Are there others?”

“Oh, no,” said F-2VA. “We’ve never had one before. It’s very exciting! I hope you’ll enjoy your time here, Miss Skywalker. The Maker was absolutely firm that you should be made comfortable.”

Han and Leia, Lucy thought. She’d seen … she’d thought …

“And who is the Maker?” she asked.

In a tone of great confusion, F-2VA said, “You don’t know? Why—Lord Vader, of course.”

Lucy’s breath strangled in her throat. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t gasp. Couldn’t do anything but struggle for air.

Vader. _Darth Vader_. He’d … oh gods, he’d practiced the carbon-freeze on Han, sent him to Jabba the Hutt. To Tatooine. She could only hope Jabba didn’t release him. She knew what service to the Hutts meant. Not Han, it couldn’t happen. Not to Han. And Leia. Vader said he’d captured Leia, Leia and Chewie and the droids. Leia would be punished if Lucy—she’d— _Leia!_

Vader’s droids said something she didn’t hear. But it reminded her to breathe. Yoda would tell her to hold to serenity and the Force, but she couldn’t reach it, felt only a roiling, icy chaos blinding her as much as the actual blindness. Lucy clenched her fingers. She couldn’t see, but she could hear, touch, ground herself in sensation. The blanket scrunched in her hand, the fluffy weight of it as unsuited to the circumstances as could be imagined.

Lucy said, “This isn’t a cell.”

“A cell! I should think not!” F-2VA cried. “I told you, you’re his guest. Oh dear, I hope your auditory sensors have not malfunctioned as well as your optical ones. I can’t think what Lord Vader will say.”

“My audi—my _hearing_ is fine,” said Lucy. To herself, she muttered, “What is he playing at?”

“He doesn’t play games,” F-2VA said sadly. “It’s a pity. They’re so much more unpredictable with organics. But I’m sure you’ll be able to amuse yourself somehow!”

Lucy’s patience evaporated.

“I’m a prisoner,” she said. “Your maker _blinded_ me.”

“No, no,” said F-2VA. “That’s the carbon-sickness. Isn’t it, Tisix?”

“Affirmative,” said Tisix. “It is common for organics subjected to carbon-freeze to afterwards experience a short period of optical malfunction as the cornea and nerves adjust. This period marks the final stage of total recovery. It is clear from your continued mydriasis that—”

“And she’ll be good as new afterwards, won’t she?”

“In the same condition as before, if that is what you mean,” Tisix said disapprovingly.

“There! You see, Miss Skywalker?”

Lucy couldn’t help herself.

“Lucy,” she said.

There was a moment of silence, then a clink of metal, F-2VA shifting from one position to another.

“Yes, miss, I know your full identification—”

“I mean, call me Lucy,” said Lucy. “Nobody calls me _Miss Skywalker._ It sounds like someone else.”

“Well … if you wish, Miss Lucy,” the droid replied. She clinked a few more times. “The Maker addresses me as Tuvié.”

Lucy had never wondered how Vader spoke to his droids. To know was at once surreal and terrifying.

She forced a smile, unsure if it would mean anything to a droid. “Tuvié. Uh, am I far from the floor?”

“A few inches,” Tuvié said.

She’d never wondered what his droids were _like_ , either. But if she had, the likes of F-2VA certainly wouldn’t have sprung to mind.

Tuvié went on, “Don’t worry, I can help you—oh!”

Lucy had already jumped off the bed. She didn’t misjudge the distance, but she did misjudge the strength in her legs. Wobbling, she would have fallen, but for the the hands that caught her at her arm and waist. Human hands, she thought at first. At least, they didn’t pinch, didn’t seem metal at all, flexed with her body like skin and muscle would. But they didn’t feel quite the same. Some sort of functioning synthetic replica like Wedge’s new foot, she decided, not organic.

Thank the gods. If Vader figured out how to fuse severed hands to his droids, she had no trouble imagining where he would find them.

“Ugh, I’m worse than a starved womprat,” she said. “What’s wrong with me?—I know, I know, carbon-sickness.” Lucy managed to straighten up and take a step independent of the droid. “Thanks, Tuvié. How long has it been, anyway?”

“Only three days,” Tuvié assured her.

“Three days!” All thoughts of droids and severed hands fled her mind. “Anything could have happened by now. Leia—where’s Leia?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Tuvié. “You’re the only guest here, Miss Lucy. I told you that.”

“They’d be prisoners,” Lucy said wildly. “Captives! Not like me—well, like me, but—Princess Leia of Alderaan, and a Wookiee, and two droids.”

“Droids?” repeated Tuvié, with rather more interest. “I’d like to see them! We meet so few new people. But I’m sorry, Miss Lucy, I haven’t heard anything about anyone else. I’m not very important, though—just an interpreter and an assistant about the castle. Lord Vader doesn’t go around installing his secure data in just anyone, you know. Only LX-3. You’d be better off asking her.” Her voice gained a decidedly petulant note. “Actually, no, you wouldn’t, because Ellex never tells anyone about anything. She’s terrible company if you ask me.”

Lucy nearly snapped that she didn’t care what kind of conversationalists Vader’s droids were. But she’d spent enough time around Threepio to know it’d be unfair and useless.

She’d find out what had happened to Leia and the others in the last three days. And she’d get them out. Somehow.

They’d always managed the impossible, hadn’t they?

_Not at Cloud City._ That was the other side of her mind, the side snarling _you ask the impossible!_ and _I’m never getting out of here._ Leia and Han talked about how optimistic and cheerful she was. But she hadn’t been, before them. It wasn’t her at all, really.

Lucy inhaled, careful to keep the breath steady and easy this time.

“I need to move around,” she said. “How big is this room?”

Tuvié gave dimensions that Lucy didn’t bother interpreting beyond _large_ , and kept a hand on Lucy’s elbow as she made her way around the bedchamber. Lucy herself held her hands out to avoid bumping into anything, though Tuvié warned her of any obstacles in her way. N _o, that’s the wardrobe—you’ll want to turn right here, no, not that far, that’s the bedpost—_

Stumbling about the room, she forced the rest away from her. Just for a moment. She counted steps. _One, two, three, four_ past the foot of the bed. _One, two, three. One, two._

“Who is Ellex?” she asked. “An officer? Another droid?”

“A _super battle droid_ ,” said Tuvié impressively. “She used to have a blaster rifle for her left hand!”

“Wow,” Lucy said.

“That was years ago, of course.”

_One, two, three, four, five._ That brought her to a window overlooking, well, something. Lucy reached out, felt bars, flinched back.

No, she wouldn’t think about it yet. Not before it happened. Whatever _it_  might be.

Lucy said, “She must be … um, vintage.”

“They say she fought in the Clone Wars!” Tuvié exclaimed. “But she’s in first-rate condition. The Maker keeps her upgrades current and her materials repaired. Well, all of us, of course—I’ve operated for fourteen standard years, myself—but mostly it’s just repairs to keep doing what we’ve always done. Ellex, though, she’s always demanding changes to her basic functions. And naturally he thinks some of them up on his own, too. He’s almost as good as a machine himself!”

“I can believe it,” said Lucy grimly. She concentrated on working feeling back into her legs.

Beyond the door, something clattered—something heavy and metal, with thudding steps.

Lucy froze where she stood, unable to move, hardly to think. Even a moment’s distraction from this horror seemed to be too much to ask.

Tuvié halted, her hand warm against Lucy’s cold skin. She tried to think about that. How did the wiring work? How did she keep from overheating? How …

The door slid open, the sound barely audible. It unsettled her, the quietness, until she realized. Not just the door. No loud, mechanized breaths, no burning hiss of a lightsaber, no nightmarish voice.

Then there was a voice, a low voice, but hardly frightening at all. A woman, or something akin.

“Is she fully operational yet?—oh, I see. Good.”

“Not fully, Ellex,” said Tuvié. “Tisix can explain.”

Tisix, whose presence Lucy had genuinely forgotten, gave a few clicks. “Quite so. Organic tissue and nerves are not so resilient as—”

“It’s good enough,” Ellex snapped. “Lord Vader ordered her brought to him immediately once she started functioning again. Are you planning on rejecting the order?”

“The Maker’s? Oh, no!” Tuvié said. “But I was tasked with her care, and—”

“He’ll see her now,” said Ellex flatly.

Perhaps if Lucy could see, it wouldn’t seem so unreal. A week ago, the idea of two unknown droids squabbling over the logistics of taking her before Darth Vader would have been impossibly bizarre. It was still impossibly bizarre. Remote and muddled, as if she weren’t here at all, a mind animating some distant receptacle. By the way they talked, she might as well be.

Lucy gave a short laugh. “But I won’t see him!”

She heard another set of clinks and clangs, culminating in a shriek of grating metal. “Are you offering resistance?”

The damned thing—person— _droid_ sounded very nearly hopeful. But Tuvié shrieked in truth.

“What are you doing? It isn’t her fault she can’t see!”

“Can’t see?” said Ellex. Her voice hardened further. “T6-X, explain.”

“I was attempting to do so,” Tisix informed her. “She remains in convalescence from the final stages of carbon-sickness, which has been protracted through the effects of leukocytes containing extremely high midichlorian counts. The remaining symptoms chiefly affect peripheral nerves and should soon diminish and disappear.”

“I told you,” Tuvié said.

“Very well,” replied Ellex. Before Lucy could get her hopes up, she continued, “You two bring her along, then. Here, I’ll restrain her.”

“Don’t you dare think of putting those filthy things on her!” Tuvié said indignantly. “She’s a guest! The Maker said so! He said to make her comfortable! Do you know how much time I’ve spent cleaning her?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” said Ellex. “Fine. Bring her your way. It’s your parts on the line, not mine.”

She thunked towards the door. Lucy hesitated, distant fear creeping near again. Desperately, she tried to think of anything else, anything she might do. But nothing came to mind, and Tuvié—the closest thing she had to an ally—was prodding her forward.

“I’ll explain everything to Lord Vader,” Tuvié said. “Don’t worry, Miss Lucy, everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

“As I have repeatedly explained,” snapped Tisix, “she cannot see anything.”

Lucy might have been leaving the burnt homestead again. It hadn’t been the right choice, or the wrong one. It’d just been the only one. Sometimes, it wasn’t about deciding between good and evil. It was about freely walking down the only path you had, or getting dragged down it.

She could still feel her family’s scorched bones scalding her hands. Sand and suns and stones and bones, all burning. Sweat and tears trickling down her face. She’d been dragged that day. And in Cloud City, too.

Gathering her courage, Lucy lifted her chin.

“Lead the way,” she said.


	2. Chapter 2

She was a Jedi, Lucy reminded herself. She was a Jedi. She was a Jedi.

Sort of.

She would be. She was apprentice to Obi-Wan Kenobi, and to Yoda, the greatest Jedi of them all. She was the daughter of Anakin Skywalker, a hero without fear … he wouldn’t want her to hesitate.

She centered herself as well as she could manage, mind catching flickers of movement that her eyes did not. Determined not to falter before the droids, Vader, anyone, she stepped out of whatever chamber she’d been relegated to.

Lucy yelped, flinching from the cold floor. Until that moment, she’d noticed neither the plush carpet of the chamber nor her own bare feet. But this was not only cold as hyperspace but rough, not like metal—not a starship. Well, she knew that, or she should have. But this could be a Hutt palace or a fortress or … anything. She didn’t know.

Shivering and frightened, Lucy stumbled on, guided by Tuvié.

“Oh dear, Miss Lucy, oh dear,” she muttered almost as soon as the door closed. “Have you developed some new malfunction already? I can’t think what the Maker will say.”

Lucy recovered her initial resolve, straightening her back and repressing her instinctive wince at each icy step.

“No,” she said. “It’s only a little cold.”

“Humanoid sensors cannot compare with ours,” said Tisix, “but at the extremities, they do contain large numbers of them, rendering both hands and feet highly sensitive to temperature.”

“Temperature?” repeated Tuvié, bewildered at first. Then she gave a small cry. “Oh, no! I meant to search for foot coverings, but of course there was no need while you were non-operational, and I quite forgot! The Maker—”

“You can bring my boots next time,” Lucy said, and could not help but add silently:  _if I live that long._ She focused as much of her attention as she could on the numbing soles of her feet, trying to at least identify the floor beneath her. “Where are they? My things?”

“Burnt,” said Tuvié tragically. “All, all burnt! It wasn’t my idea, Miss Lucy, but … well, everything was stained and ripped and wrecked as it was, and the boots falling apart. I’ll find you something to muffle your sensors, I promise.”

The thought cut into her mind:  _I’m going to die without any shoes on._

Mounting dread clutched at Lucy’s throat. Not the boots, or anything else, just—she might die. In a matter of minutes. Wherever they were, it couldn’t be that long before they brought her before Vader. She had no lightsaber, and the Force slipped and heaved whenever she tried to grasp at it, she—

Something else. Something else. They’d tossed her last belongings into the incinerator. Last but for her father’s lightsaber—Vader might have taken it from her on Bespin, but it must be around somewhere, and it was hers. The rest, though, the very clothes on her back …

Tuvié had said something about cleaning her up. She must have bathed her, dumped her into whatever Lucy was wearing now. What was she wearing, anyway? She could feel skirts, the stiff material brushing her ankles with each step. Good fabric, she thought, never able to quite prevent herself from calculating prices and values. Some sort of rough-woven silk; that’d be twenty barrels at least. And she wasn’t tripping over anything, which never happened except with clothes that she or Aunt Beru made, or Leia’s things—she was as short as Lucy.

_Leia._ Lucy stumbled, nearly fell.

“Mind your step, Miss Lucy,” Tuvié said. “The halls are a bit rough. I’ll find the mufflers as soon as I can.”

Lucy swallowed and kept going. Skirts, she thought wildly. Rough silk skirts, not quite floor length—on her. Even, as far as she could tell, not dragging on the floor or baring her calves in the back. Pleated, and loose rather than close.

The shirt—bodice?— _was_  close. Not too close, though, nor baggy anywhere. Somehow fitted neatly to her shape, from the low waist to the shoulders to a collar nearly at her jaw. Velvet? And wide gauzy sleeves, until they caught at her wrists in long, tight cuffs.

Cuffs, just like the Death Star. She nearly shrieked with laughter. But no Han, all snide asides and daring and cracking shell of self-interest. No Leia snarling and shooting and that bit more sensible, but fearlessly trusting in the strength of a woman barely over five feet. No Chewie, no Artoo and Threepio, scraps for all she knew. Or memory-wiped, even worse.

She hadn’t cried for herself, hadn’t even thought of it. But at that, tears pricked her eyes. No, they wouldn’t be. It just, it couldn’t happen. Vader had a high tolerance for droid eccentricity, to go by these. Well, he was the next thing to a droid himself. They’d be themselves, somewhere. They would.

Lucy felt sick. Trying to steady herself, she pressed her free hand against her stomach, and felt not the heavy softness of the collar, but delicate lines of thread. Some sort of embroidered panel. Fancy, she thought. Very, very fancy.

It didn’t make her any less queasy. Why on earth …? She felt like a bantha trussed for a banquet, or she would, if she thought Vader could possibly care about fashion.

It wasn’t like she had anything to lose.

“Why am I wearing this?” said Lucy.

She meant to address herself to Tuvié, plainly the responsible party, but she had no clear idea of where the droid’s head was. It probably made no difference to her, but the unrelenting darkness didn’t seem quite so terrible if Lucy didn’t try to look at anything. But it was Tisix who answered her.

“Your skin is inadequate.”

Ellex made a sound that Lucy couldn’t identify. Probably some sort of metal snicker.

“A typical failing in humanoid construction,” Tisix said.

“Were you coded by Tuskens?” said Tuvié. “Really, you don’t have to be rude.”

“Accurate,” Tisix corrected.

“Don’t mind them, Miss Lucy. It’s just that—well, we had to put you in  _something_. I found what I could.”

Lucy tried to imagine what conceivable reason Darth Vader could have for keeping small gowns in opulent high fashion lying around some fortress of death. Nothing came to mind.

“It’s just lucky that Senator Amidala’s clothes fit you,” Tuvié was saying.

“Amidala!” exclaimed Lucy. She knew little of her namesake; once she’d known still less, not even her name or the fact that she’d been a senator at all. It was Leia who told her about Padmé Amidala, Palpatine’s protégée turned enemy. She’d been friends with Lucy’s father, and Leia’s father too, working with Senators Organa and Mothma to found the Rebellion—a peculiar nexus of all their histories. Lucy would have liked to know more, but she never had the time or the resources, so she still had no idea why she carried a long-dead senator’s name. Amidala, Leia said, died with the Republic.

It might be nothing more than the tie to Anakin. Perhaps she’d been something like a  _valìkhariya_ on Tatooine, a companion so honoured and beloved that they would be admitted into the family as guide and protector. Among Lucy’s people, anyway, it had been custom for children to bear the name, in some form, of their appointed  _valìkhariya_. Perhaps Anakin had even named Amidala as Lucy’s.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Tisix.

Not that it mattered now. Padmé Amidala was long gone, and Lucy a blinded captive marched to her fate in a dead woman’s gown. Amidala’s, Lucy Amidala in Amidala’s clothes—she almost laughed again. Coincidence. It had to be coincidence. Could it be coincidence?

“Quiet,” snapped Ellex, stomping some distance ahead.

“I referred to the labour of Denine,” Tisix said. “It made the adjustments to allow for her musculature.”

“Only a few,” replied Tuvié. “It couldn’t have managed them if Miss Lucy’s construction were not so near to the senator’s.”

Ellex’s stomps grated against the rock floor. “I said  _quiet._ ”

Lucy, only half-hearing any of this, wondered how Amidala had died. But she dared not press Ellex further. She didn’t mean to be a coward, but testing the patience of a super battle droid was—well, courage didn’t have to mean stupidity.

Eventually, the air lightened, and the floor beneath Lucy’s feet gentled to something smoother and warmer. Tuvié’s grip very slightly lightened as doors closed behind them.

“Here we are!” she cried out, her usual anxious cheer brighter than usual. “You should be more comfortable now, Miss Lucy.”

Right. Waiting for Vader.

Ellex stomped in some direction away from Lucy, the clatter of her tread fading. Tisix didn’t move, but Tuvié gently prodded Lucy over to the side, and pressed on her shoulder. “You can sit down.”

She would much rather have faced Vader on her feet. But she supposed it didn’t make much different; she couldn’t even be sure of facing him at all. With the Force slithering away every time she reached for it, a distant fog at the furthest edge of her awareness, she had no direction. Lucy fumbled at the back of the chair, making out its dimensions before she let Tuvié sit her down.

It was pointless in the end. The moment that she heard Vader’s heavy step and heavier breaths, Lucy sprang up, hands clenched at her sides and terror in her throat. To face him with a lightsaber and urgency was one thing; to do it like this, with no weapon and no escape, not even her own clothes, was another. Adrenaline trickled through her veins, but not enough to drive off raw fear.

For a moment, she heard nothing but his machinery and her pulse in her ears. Then, presumably at some silent command, the droids retreated. Lucy had to repress the impulse to grasp at Tuvié.

Slowly, Darth Vader said, “Lucy Skywalker.”

Somehow, he managed to make her own name one of the most menacing things she’d ever heard.

Lucy straightened to the furthest millimeter of her height. “I won’t give you anything.”

“We shall see,” said Vader.

And that sounded  _less_  menacing, almost conversational. She clenched her teeth, grateful in an odd sense. As ever, anger blotted out fear.

“Never!”

After a pause, he went on, “You are comfortable?”

She stared at him, or in his general vicinity, tracking his steady mechanized breaths as well as she could. He didn’t seem to be moving any nearer.

“What?”

His vocoder made a sound that sounded very much like a sigh. “There is no need to make this more unpleasant than it has to be. Your accommodations. Are they comfortable?”

Scarcely less incredulous, Lucy said, “Maybe if you hadn’t  _blinded me._ ”

She didn’t need to see him wave this aside. “A byproduct of the carbon-freeze. It will pass.”

_Carbon-freeze. Han._

“Where are my friends?” she demanded. “Leia and Han and C-3PO and R2-D2?”

A moment of absolute silence passed, second eating up second. Even Vader’s breathing mechanism stilled. Then he said,

“C-3PO and R2-D2? These are your droids?”

“My friends,” Lucy snapped. “Did you wipe them?”

The respirator took up again. With a distinct note of contempt, he replied, “I am not one of your corrupt Jedi and politicians. I do not have a habit of destroying the minds of sentient beings.”

What on—

Her mind flashed to Obi-Wan back in Mos Eisley,  _these aren’t the droids you’re looking for._ Did he mean that? But it wasn’t the same, at all. Vader was just—just—maybe he did excuse himself that way. Who cared? A man (maybe? cyborg, anyway) who oversaw atrocity after atrocity didn’t get to judge anyone, even if he had a soft spot (maybe?) for droids.

She crumpled the priceless material of Amidala’s skirt in her fists. “Then where are they? You said you were keeping them as hostages. As—”

“Regrettably,” said Vader, “they all escaped. No doubt Artoo had some part in it.”

At first, relief swam through her. She could endure anything with only her own welfare in the balance. But Leia, Han, the droids: even Lucy didn’t know what she might do for them. Now he had nothing to hold over her.

Except, why would Vader himself tell her so? He might have just let her believe that others would pay the price for defiance. Lucy scowled.

“Why should I believe that?”

“Search your feelings,” said Vader, and through everything, the words fell into the same cadence as Obi-Wan’s, Yoda’s. Any Jedi’s, she guessed, and nearly shivered. Was he a Jedi, still? “The Force will tell you it is true.”

“The Force!” Lucy nearly screamed with laughter. “I don’t feel anything! You—you’ve cut me off from the Force, you’re—”

“You are a Skywalker,” Vader said sharply. “Nothing can block the Force from you.”

What the  _hell_?

Fear altogether swallowed up in incredulity, she said, “That’s why you hunted me down? It’s not the Death Star, it’s—my name?”

_Darth Vader betrayed and murdered your father._  But apparently that wasn’t enough, though she could scarcely believe it.

“You’ve done all this because I’m Anakin Skywalker’s daughter?”

Another one of his long, unpleasant silences slipped past. More than ever, Lucy resented the blackness around her, the vacuity of every other sense. She refused to break it, though, betray weakness to an enemy. Even if she hadn’t known better, Leia always warned her against that, and in his way, Han, too.

“Yes,” he said at last.

_“Why?”_

“We have a … common enemy,” said Vader, which—

What the—

All right, she’d thought her capacity for shock exhausted, but  _clearly not._

“With the power of the Dark Side,” he persisted, “we will have the strength for victory. If you turn and join me—”

She did laugh, then. “You? I’ll never join you. And I’ll never turn to the Dark Side.”

“You think that now,” said Vader, almost indifferently.

“It won’t change,” Lucy retorted. “You’ll be waiting for a long time if you expect anything different.”

Now he sounded almost amused. “Fortunately, I have plenty of time.”

The familiar clinks and patters of droids filled her ears. He must have summoned them in some way or other.

Vader told her, “And so do you, young Skywalker.”

* * *

As Lucy followed Tuvié back to her rooms, she almost welcomed the touch of the prosthetic hand. It was warm, at least, and kind in its way. Within a few steps, Lucy managed to shove her scattered thoughts into some kind of order.

Leia, Han, and the droids had made it out—good.

Vader seemed intent on keeping her in what passed for comfort here, rather than torment—good. Maybe.

He apparently meant to hold her here indefinitely (forever?), unless she gave in— _not_  good.

He also apparently meant to place her under the constant supervision of his servants or himself at every moment of every day—definitely not good.

She couldn’t use the Force. She couldn’t hide. She couldn’t help the Rebellion. She couldn’t choose her own clothes. She couldn’t see.

Lucy shuddered.

“Oh, are you cold again?” said Tuvié, brimming with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Lucy replied, though she was. She just couldn’t—she—she could endure Vader’s menace, the battle droid’s threats. Kindness was harder.

Her thoughts flickered back. He didn’t want to subvert her purely because of her strength in the Force, or her triumph above Yavin. He called her  _young Skywalker_  (or  _Lucy_ , which was worse). He’d brought her here on Anakin’s account. Anakin, whom he’d killed. A grudge, maybe, but Vader had been the one to betray her father, not the other way around, and he wasn’t trying to kill her anyway. Even as icy vengeance, it didn’t make sense. And a shared enemy … did he mean the Emperor? Since when was the Emperor Vader’s enemy?

Her head throbbed. Only when Tuvié led her into her quarters—her padded cell, more like—did Lucy feel her muscles finally relax, the pulsing pressure in her head and chest and gut subsiding.

Tuvié settled her in a soft chair near the barred window, which did little to diminish the impression of an ornate cell. Lucy settled for catching her breath and tilting her face up to the light.

“I can guide you elsewhere, Miss Lucy,” Tuvié told her, in more fretful tones than usual. “I am permitted to take you almost anywhere in the castle, you know. This must be very dull.”

“I’ve had enough excitement for awhile,” said Lucy. “Maybe you could find me some boots? I’d look, but …”

Several pieces of metal clattered. “Oh! yes, yes, of course.”

Given the synthetic arm, she must be quite the patchwork droid. Lucy rather liked her better for it, as far as she could like any minion of Vader’s.

She exhaled. As Tuvié’s steps receded into a faint scritching sound, Lucy closed her eyes. This time, she didn’t grasp at the Force, cold and slippery as it seemed. The Dark Side was strong here, of course, stronger than she’d ever sensed it, but the Force was never the Dark Side alone. Two halves, always, if rarely in balance. Yoda had said so, anyway.

“Please,” she whispered to it. “Help me.”

“What was that, Miss Lucy?” called Tuvié. “Do you need something else?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lucy said, too exhausted to much mind her tone.

“Oh.” Tuvié went uncharacteristically quiet. “I see. I’ll … go find the coverings. Boots.”

Though Lucy couldn’t see her, the memory of Threepio and Artoo flared in her. She bit her lip.

“Sorry!” she called out, and  _Force_ , now she was apologizing to Vader’s droid.

“Sorry?” said Tuvié, with every indication of bewilderment. “I’m the one who destroyed your … boots? Yes, boots. And your other coverings. And the cloth in your hair, it was hopelessly tangled, and—”

“It’s all right, Tuvié,” Lucy said hastily. “If you could just find some kind of shoes, that’d be good. I—I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll do my best,” Tuvié promised, and at last, left her in peace.


End file.
